


to be the sun

by seagrey



Series: perichoresis [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biblical References, Body Horror, F/F, F/M, M/M, Modern Character in Thedas, Modern Girl in Thedas, Multi, Other, POV First Person, POV Multiple, POV Third Person Limited
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-05-20 19:18:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14900445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seagrey/pseuds/seagrey
Summary: currently a series on one-shots, perhaps one day a full fic





	1. The Wrath of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> > Eating fire
>> 
>> is your ambition:  
> to swallow the flame down  
> take it into your mouth  
> and shoot it forth, a shout or an incandescent  
> tongue, a word  
> exploding from you in gold, crimson,  
> unrolling in a brilliant scroll
>> 
>> To be lit up from within  
> vein by vein
>> 
>> To be the sun
> 
> ― Margaret Atwood, _Selected Poems: 1965-1975_

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacquelyn POV, Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was inspired by the ever-lovely Ushauz, whose writing in _A Herald Named Desire_ never fails to make me smile.
> 
>  
> 
> Here is a quick sneak peak for Chapter I.

The shattering of glass against a solid surface wrenches the world into focus.

Wooden room. Stifling, flickering heat to the lower left. Crackling fire. Dust motes float through the air, heavy with the scent of blood and herbal tang.

I am straight-backed, sitting tall, already alert in my movements. Time skips, and my head rests against rough wall.

Ah, head injury.

Wind whistles through a sunbright doorway, snow slushed about a stranger’s feet. Solid bed, rough blanket, plain wrappings around my abdomen. Fewer freckles, missing sca-

Shamefaced girl, frantic and straining my ears. Hers are pointed? She crouches, bleeding fingers plucking broken shards, wet patches in the wood. Broken glass. Wavering walls, spinning room, white knuckles wrapped in wool blanket.

 _Steady_.

She apologises profusely and doesn't seem to notice the wave of lightheadedness. The corners of the room shimmer.

I thank the stuttering, bowing girl and ask about a Breach, smooth smiles masking tremors in my left hand. She flees, door thudding behind her.

Broken bottle shards missed on the floor. The haze spreads. I drift.

 

Later, after I am accosted with herbs at my lips, a numbness in my left arm, and a hand at my forehead… Bickering and grumbling somewhere above my head… my eyes remain open.

I do not sleep again.

Later, I remember the clumsy girl with the ears.

 

I had asked her questions.

I hadn't tried to open my mouth, dry and swollen as it was. It opened anyway.

I did not speak with the girl.

_No, you did not._

Pressure rises, stunning, before abating. I am unmoored and attempt cling to the bed frame even as my fingers unhook themselves and fold in my lap.

It pulses, the mildest of migraines, an awareness other than me. It is in the back of my skull. It is between my eyes, rooted among my ribs.

I am not pregnant. Not constipated. Not dreaming. Not high?

_No, déraciné, you are not._

 

Darkness again.

 


	2. Sutherland and Company Missing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra POV, Storm Coast

Cassandra's eyes lingered on the Herald as the fire crackled and warmed their raindamp skin. She stifled a sore groan as bruised limbs unfurled, the chorus of camp settling around them. Tethras conferred with Harding while Solas ladled stew into bowls. His concoctions were as likely to poison the party as they were to please them, but Cassandra was grateful that he was willing to lend his expertise all the same... _even if he did use exceptionally odd mixes of herbs._

If Solas was always first to taste and serve the meals, then the Herald was always last to them. She preferred to wait, ascertaining that all ate before she did. Often no one saw her with food at all. Cassandra suspected she preferred to eat during first watch - which she took every night. Last to eat, last to sleep. Leading with honour. It quieted the aching in Cassandra's chest to watch her greet each Scout at each camp. Every night. Without hesitation or sigh or complaint. Everyone received a smile, everyone's names remembered.

 _Herald of Andraste indeed._ Perhaps the Maker cared more deeply for them than Leliana thought. The Maker loved His children. Perhaps He sent someone to know and love His people in His stead. Or so she hoped

The Herald had settled in the mouth of the tent to unplait her hair, fragrant with wildflower and ozone. The Marked hand was trembling again. She made no sound, but her jaw was clenched and brow wrinkled. Too many rifts today. The mark would pulse with the heartbeat of each of them, and closing them seemed like suturing her hand again and again. Trevelyan used to scream as they shut until they drew one too many bears. They nearly lost the Mark that day. Cassandra had helped pull teeth from her bicep before Solas could heal her.

Fate was never kind to those whom the Maker loved.

Cassandra crouched behind her, brushed the Herald's hand away. "Let me do this for you," she murmured. _Let me repay you for the lives you have saved, for the dracolisk and the darkspawn and the demon. It never seems to be enough._

Trevelyan relents for once, spine straightening, hands folded, as if for a maid. 'I was trained as a lady,' she had mentioned back in Haven, 'before the Fade manifested in me.'

The Seeker is glad for the opportunity to serve, even in this small way. It never seems enough.

Cassandra untangled dark hair with steady fingers, unwinding knots with practised ease. She, too, had been trained to be a lady once upon a time, albeit with far more ill-fitting and awkward results. She never wore the mantle so elegantly as this one did. The Seeker was proud of the calluses on her knuckles, the bleeding thigh and scarred cheek. Cassandra knew how Regalyan had admired her. It didn't make her feel any less awkward next to the beautiful Ladies in the courts or the Mothers who drew admirers whenever they sang.

"Cassandra."

"Yes, Herald?"

She had turned, taken her companion's face in her hands; gaze unfocused and unblinking. The Seeker stilled. Green light wavered across a shadowed face, now-steady fingertips tracing the scar on her cheek.

"You are valiant of spirit and blaze like star-shine," Trevelyan promised.

_Andraste?_

 

"Besides,

all flesh is grass."

 

 

 

Cassandra had hoped that the Maker sent Trevelyan. Later, she decided it didn't matter. She did the Maker's work anyway.

 

Later, she rubs that same scar, air heady with the scent of wildflowers and ozone. She lights the pyre.


	3. In Hushed Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacquelyn & Eris POV, Redclife

Of all the mages, Connor remains the best fed. He moves with a quiet confidence about the village while other mages - ill at ease with the presence of the Tevinter guards - linger in doorways and other shadowed places. He helps the few non-mages left in this forsaken village, moving lake catches from boat to dock. He lifts the writhing nets with an ease ill-suited to a life in a Tower. The lifelong fishermen’s limbs shudder as they carry their catches. His do not. The others do not like his help, but they do not say anything against it. There are too few of them left to supply a village.

 _He should not use our sister's strength so obviously. Foolish._  

The other mages offer him a wide berth as he walks through the village, traded goods in hand. They twitch away from him. Some cringe. No one will look at him, but all will take the food he distributes freely. I cannot see why Fiona and her cohorts would ask me to do this. He seems the last bulwark against the looming Tevinters. Connor alone braves the sunlight. He does not seem to mind that his shadow no longer mimics his body. Fiona is nowhere to be seen. I am disappointed by her grasping. Her character in the Game cowered. This one, despite the monumental fuckup with Mr Alexi-ass, has still scraped by with her reputation only nicked. The mages look to her in the uncertainty of their servitude.

_Better to cement her power over the people she failed before you collect them. We are yet an unknown, and her control is weakened. Better for our purposes to be seen protecting your potential people against abominations._

I pout. For half a moment I wonder about keeping him prisoner instead.

_Shackled to a bed does not a proper prisoner make. He is infamous besides._

Despite the infinite sexual possibilities, I agree. The Devil's Legion could not be chained, not even hand and foot. Disappointing as that may be.

__I am hungry. These shining, broken people all want my sister gone. The village reeks of it. It rises from the ground._ _

I show her memories of the village playthroughs in the first Game, the waves of undead. Connor caused the death of many. Eris seems pleased by this, a warm glow in our chest. He's noticed us watching him now. Smiles disarmingly. Damned dimples. He waves. Cocky shit. Waving to his executioners, that motherfucker.

Bull shifts beside me, distracting me from images of Connor and Isolde intertwined. He stretches, cracks his shoulders. “You ready?”

“Wait, Bull.” Despite her hunger echoing the villagers' needs, my passenger is oddly reluctant to fulfil the whims of these mages. The old loyalty between sisters twinges at her own novel wants. Regardless, Connor has nowhere to run. The Tevinters want him gone as much as Fiona. If she came up with the idea on her own. The cocky man wanders over, eyes glinting in the harsh noon light. He smirks as he looks us over, bedraggled and drenched in ichor. It's pretension. It is clear we could rip him apart. He follows us to the edge of the village, steps just outside the walls. The Veil, achingly thin here, presses against my skin. Hair rises along my arms, and my eardrums pop. 

_The land here has memorised the power of the demon in him. The Fade reaches, mesmerised by the blood-soaked memories emanating from the grounds like summer heat from your 'asphalt.'_

I can feel Eris exult in the heady hurricane of emotion, two overwhelming and conflicting desires polluting the air here. Demons flock to this area, attracted to grief and death. The villagers want the mage gone, the demon gone, Tevinters gone, just, please, please, peace. Please.

Connor comes closer leaving the shadow looming from Redcliffe's gates. The tattered Veil pulses once, and the scent of ozone fills my throat. It reminds me of home. Watching lightning strike the trees while sitting in church pews. Thunder crackling. The droning voice of a sweating preacher. Pastor Derrick would have cast the demon out already. Hesitation, he would decry, is a sin. Connor stops a few feet away, watching my companions. His hands are now empty. He was young, I remember, when his companion came to him. He is quiet now, no doubt feeling our own conflicting desires. I cannot know if he has tried to atone beyond feeding the people. 

Swept up in remembrance, inspiration strikes. There were sermons about swines drowning. About mercy. Connor lowers his head, gaze meeting mine. Waiting.

_We are not alone in our hunger. Food must be scarce here. Want it more, déraciné. They will hear us._

I smile sweetly at him, ready to receive obeisance in exchange for leniency. He kneels. “What do you want with me, Herald of Andraste? Will you torture me? You know what I am. What we have done.”

I glance at Solas. He is still, mouth pursed, jaw clenched. Fingers white on his staff. Bull reaches for his axe. I hold up my left hand. The glow is faded in the light, but its ever-present hum can be heard. “Come out of this man, impure spirit.” Connor glances at Solas, mouth just twitching up at the corners. Looks to me, at my other hand grasping the heavy amulet. 

Bow if you understand. Do something. I can try and keep you here. Please, please, please just listen.

_We would not abandon our own kind, not for all the corpses in the village._

He lowers his head. “Send me among the druffalo; allow me to go into them.”

Varric, Bianca trained on the abomination’s face, sneers. “Listen here, you little shit-”

“Varric!” I snap. “It has my permission.” The dwarf grumbles but holds. Connor begins to shiver, spine bending back. A hollow scream rips from his throat. My companions startle, but I keep my hand high. I want them to watch. The young man cries. Claws at his face. Violet flames pour out of his nose, his mouth, his ears. They pool along the ground, trailing back through the gates, towards the water, beyond which lays the field where herds roam. I hear Latin swearing, another screaming, from beyond the walls. Panic twists at Bull, thrashing inside a tightly held noose, desperate instinct to attack held by my order. It's heady, something to luxuriate in. The sickly tang of terror reaches my nose, far worse than Varric's controlled and shuddering fear. Solas smells only of disgust. Continually a bore.

Connor finally collapses, weeping at my feet. He begs to go with us, that he can't stay here any longer, that he can't bear it. I kneel and place the humming hand on his shoulder. The rocky ground digs into my knees, dust further coating my armour, dammit. His voice is duller without the demon, diminished. “Go home to your own people and tell them how much the Maker has done for you, and how He has had mercy on you.”

The druffalo don't drown themselves after all. They tear into the woods instead, keening. 

 


	4. Perseverance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacquelyn POV, Skyhold

My room reeked of rot, like the last few days of a cycle when the blood was old and long-dead. Hadn't bled since before though. Too long, too long. Brushing hair, dressing quickly, mask of the biddable mage. Thin one today. Easy, old game of pretend. Too tired for new Games. Inquisitor, Herald. Missing cutlery, missing spoons. Chapped lips, dry eyes, swollen tongue. Blood pressure low. The room wobbles. I will not be dizzy. Will not sit. Must go. Stay still too long, they’ll see.

I felt oily. I felt brittle. _We_ ceased to communicate with words. Grammar gave headaches. Couldn't fit into the structure. Too tired. Too aching. Too long. Her vibration in me was constant, tingling, ulnar nerve stretched taut through the body. She holds me here. Her will has always been better than mine.

The elf had taken to holding his breath whenever I wandered by the rotunda, burning up, my self dissipating out of my body like smoke. How long had he known? Dropped thread. Likely his fault. Maybe Cole. But later. Had been too long to consider anything other than the aching emptiness. Needed food, needed life, needed that lyrium fix. I waver and smile and tittered at visitors, flashing dimples as cheeks ache. I twinkle enough to give Dumbledore a run for his money, then dash away. 

There is a lag between order and movement. Bodies burn bright, heat signatures warm and flickering colours. Everything else dim, muted, uninteresting. Taking too long. Was Skyhold always so much? It seems to grow even as I step past the doors. Knows what I seek.

Slow blood drudging from a nick and a bruise on the knee. When? Bath? Walking into the doorway? Won't heal now. Can't conglomerate, congregate, what's the word? Won't stop bleeding, not enough food. Eris hums the notes that mean our boy, reminding me of purpose. His frequency is lower usually, higher after a hit, discordant when low low low. Lyrium. Always smells delicious. Like home. 

But his troops come first. Always. Honourable for the soldiers, the men, the 'people.'

Sharper frequencies. Reminders. Focus now. I slide my awareness away, let her take the reins. We are long past the main hall, sheltered by dreary day. No one who can differentiate risks the ramparts today. Worth the risk of letting go. I am closer to forgetting than she. Eris belongs in this world. I need to remember to stay. Need a body to hold me here. Can't risk rotting away. Risks worth whiles while I wile away here.

Remember the body. Step by step, rain sliding off skin, off roughworn stones, wind and grey-green skies. Careful. Don't slip. Almost to office. Hand on doorway. Dismiss messenger. Dismiss paperwork. Relinquish control, awareness. No time to enjoy today. 

We need to feed.


End file.
